Broken, Never Destroyed
by Liathwen
Summary: When brilliant but poor medical student, Molly Hooper, is offered a mysterious job, she never thinks that she'll end up as the assistant to the enigmatic detective, Sherlock Holmes. As Molly investigates gruesome crimes and reports back to her employer, she finds herself sinking deeper into a world she never knew existed and falling for a man she never even considered a friend.
1. Interview with the Unknown

"What do you know of Sherlock Holmes, Miss Hooper?"

Molly Hooper's brow furrowed and she chewed her lower lip thoughtfully. Her chocolate brown eyes were lowered to her hands, where she busily chipped off the nail polish she had painted on for exactly that reason. In the past, she had bitten her nails, a nervous habit, and had finally taught herself to chip off her polish instead.

"I, I don't understand sir?"

"What. Do. You. Know. Of. Sherlock. Holmes?" Each word was a sentence of its own and she looked up at the man who asked, her face apprehensive. "I'd appreciate it if you would simply answer me, Miss Hooper, no questions asked."

For not the first time, Molly wondered exactly what the hell she had gotten herself into. This job interview felt more like an interrogation from the cold man in front of her. She wracked her brain for information.

"Umm, he's brilliant, right? Used to help Scotland Yard with solving crimes." She shook her head. "But he disappeared a few years ago, didn't he? The papers said he just shut himself up in his home one day and never came back out."

The scarily serious man across from her smiled a reptilian smile which sent shivers down her spine. Molly just wanted to escape the man's gaze, it seemed like he was looking straight through her. Examining her. He sat back, rubbing a finger across his lips as he scrutinized her through narrowed eyes.

"Would you like to meet him?"

She sputtered. "What?"

He sighed the most long suffering, exasperated sigh she had ever heard, and leaned forward, pinning her with his glare. "Miss Hooper, I don't care how intelligent you are, if you wish for Sherlock to put up with you for more than one day, you are going to have to be able to speak a full sentence without tripping all over yourself."

Molly bristled, straightening in her chair. "Excuse me, Mr… whatever your name is, but whether I can put together a sentence is irrelevant. I'm top of my class, and have plenty of hands on experience in the medical field. I don't know what exactly it is that you want from me, but if it has anything to do with that, I can assure you that you will find no one more qualified than I am." She nodded her head curtly at the end, trying to seem more confident than she felt. Her insides were squirming with nerves but she kept her face untouched by her inner turmoil.

Molly Hooper was strong. Years of hiding her emotions had left her with the uncanny ability to take whatever abuse that came her way with a completely indifferent demeanor. At the age of 23, she was described as timid and shy by some. By others, she was labelled cold, unfeeling and calculating. Her reluctance to show her true self resulted in alienation from her classmates at the university where she was indisputably the most brilliant and dedicated student studying medicine. In a few short years, she hoped to have her degree in forensic pathology.

And she would, if she could come up with the money for classes.

Though undeniably smart, Molly Hooper had trouble getting the money she needed for school. All the scholarships were designated for certain groups of people and unfortunately, Molly didn't fit the bill.

In truth, she would not have had any problems, had she not suddenly become an orphan a few years prior under mysterious circumstances. In the time since then, she had been as frugal as possible, trying to make her meager inheritance last through school but not even her brilliant mind could make the money stretch any further.

That is how she found herself going through this ridiculous excuse for a job interview.

One of her professors, the one who had taken the shy aspiring pathologist under his wing, had called her to his office one day and informed her that one of his oldest friends was looking for someone who had an intimate knowledge of bodies for a job. He had recommended her, knowing that she needed the money.

Molly's eyes had bugged when he told her that all her school expenses would be paid, she would be given a place to live with paid utilities and an allowance for whatever expenses she might have. When she hesitantly asked what her duties would be, her professor had replied with a shrug.

"Whatever it is, it won't be conventional," he replied. "But I can promise you it won't be boring either."

He had winked at her and given her a paper with a date, time and address on it. Which is where she was at that precise moment.

Staring down an impassive man dressed impeccably in a three piece suit.

Molly shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, her façade breaking a little as she regretted her clothing choice for the umpteenth time since she'd set foot in the room. She was dressed in her normal clothes, which not only were several years old, due to lack of funds, but also horribly old-maid-like. Molly freely admitted than she had no fashion sense whatsoever and since she planned to spend the rest of her life with the company of the dead (_ooo it sounds horrible when I put it that way_) she didn't put any effort into learning how to dress herself.

After a moment, he wore her down completely and she began chewing on her lip and running her fingers though the ends of her long, brown ponytail. She smoothed the wrinkles out of her plain, sage green trousers and played with the lacy ends of her sleeves as her interrogator continued to stare at her.

He huffed, his decision made, and Molly prepared herself to hear him say that he appreciated her coming but that he wouldn't be needing her. To her surprise, what came out of his mouth was quite different.

"I like you, Miss Hooper. I believe you will be able to handle my brother quite well indeed."

She gasped slightly, shocked at his pronouncement.

He stood and handed her an envelope.

"There is an advance. You'll start tomorrow. There will be a car around to pick you up from your place of residence at precisely six o'clock in the evening. You do not have classes tomorrow so I suggest you spend the day packing up your essentials and preparing to move. Also, you might want to use some of that money to acquire a new wardrobe. Something more suitable for your new position."

She gazed at him incredulously. "Ummm, sir? What exactly is my new position? You never told me what I'll be doing."

"Oh, I thought it was obvious. You'll be assistant to the only consulting detective in the world." He marked the title with air quotes and a sarcastic tone. "You will examine crime scenes and bodies then report back to my brother."

Molly gasped in earnest this time as she put two and two together.

She'd heard whispers of Mycroft Holmes. The most powerful man in England. And she'd been speaking to him for the last hour without even knowing it. She mentally berated herself.

_Now you've done it, Molly. You're royally screwed now._

"What about my classes, sir?"

"You'll be given time off for your classes, though your schedule will change. I have arranged for you to have private classes each morning."

She stared at him, speechless until a sudden thought came to her.

"You already made arrangements…"

"Yes, Miss Hooper, I was already sure of you before you walked in the door."

"You could've spared me the agony," she muttered under her breath and thought she caught a slight smile from him as he stood and strode past her to the door, opening it and effectively dismissing her.

As she passed by him, he called to the woman sitting at the desk outside his office. "Anthea, take tomorrow morning out of the office and procure some suitable clothing for Miss Hooper." He gave Molly a cold smile. "I doubt you would know what to do with your money, so use it to buy things for your new home instead. Your clothing will be waiting for you when you arrive at your new place."

"Where will I be living?" she asked, cocking her head to the side in inquiry.

"221B Baker Street."


	2. House Guest

Molly's head whirled.

She sat in the middle of her sitting room floor, music blasting in the background, surrounded by boxes where, just 24 hours before, she was completely unaware that her life would be changing so drastically.

She had most of her meager possessions packed already and it was only 2 pm. She packed up the majority of her clothes, against the orders of Anthea, who had been by early in the morning to take her measurements. The woman took one look in Molly's closet and told her to throw out everything and proceeded to take Molly's bra size as well. After her exit, Molly had defiantly boxed up most of her clothes, throwing out only what was unserviceable. She reasoned that she could wear her normal clothes while at home and her new ones when her services were required.

The bulk of her boxes were filled with hundreds of books. Molly loved to read; it was instilled in her by her parents, both literature professors. They differed on what type of books though, her mother firmly on the side of the classics, (The Iliad, Bleak House, Pride and Prejudice, Ivanhoe) whereas her father preferred more recent literature, (Of Mice and Men, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Grapes of Wrath.) Molly fell squarely in the middle, owning large amounts of both types. Whenever she had any extra money, which was rare, she spent it on books. Though now, they were mostly medical books or textbooks for her classes.

She sighed.

Anthea had delivered a missive from Mycroft Holmes during her visit that morning, which gave instructions for Molly to leave all her furniture and kitchen things. They would be placed into storage until such time as her services were no longer needed. She was informed that a bed and dresser would be waiting for her and that she could use some of her advance to buy anything else she wished. It seemed a bit odd that not a mention of living room furniture was made but she shrugged it off. She wasn't going to turn down new furniture, not when hers had so many holes and stains.

So really, Molly only had a small amount of belongings for Mycroft's men to move to her new flat.

She wondered what it would look like. She hoped it had some character, unlike the man who had interviewed her. She wasn't sure if she could live in a place that was as cold and clinical as he was. Though, his office, with its dark wood paneling and leather chairs, seemed out of pace with his personality so Molly had some optimism.

A loud knock on the door startled her from her thoughts and she jumped quickly to her foot. She turned down the volume and checked the clock before opening the door to let the men come inside and collect her boxes. She chewed her lip, watching them, before getting up the courage to hand her spare key to one of the men and tell him that he should lock up when they had finished, that she needed to pop out and get a few things. He merely nodded, taking the key from her and continued about his business, so Molly slipped out to purchase a few last minute items.

* * *

Molly wandered aimlessly about the store, not sure what to buy. She had plenty of funds in her bank account, thanks to the check she had received from Mr. Holmes the day before, but years of ingrained frugality was preying on her conscious as she picked up an expensive bottle of shampoo that smelled fantastic. She swallowed, fighting a battle with her inner self, and put it in her basket, along with the matching conditioner. She justified it by arguing that she needed to look her best for her new job. With a curt nod, she also picked up a body wash, moisturizer, and some makeup. She wasn't one for a lot of facial products, usually going without entirely, but she didn't want to disappoint.

Molly's mind dwelled on her new employer. She wondered what he was like, if he was anything at all like his brother. She hoped not. Mycroft Holmes reduced her normally impassive demeanor to that of a stammering idiot. Her eyes narrowed.

_I really need to work on that. Even if the man is the British Government, I should be able to have a conversation with him without being intimidated to the point of incoherence. _

She shook her head and moved down the aisle, picking up hair ties and bobby pins. She kept her hair back most of the time, but those ties had a way of disappearing. She wandered about a bit more, her brain still occupied with wrapping around all the changes in her life when she suddenly remembered she had to be back at her flat soon. She hurriedly checked out, cringing at the price she was paying, and jogged back down the street to her flat.

She didn't see the tall man leaning in the doorway of the coffee shop across the street, watching her.

* * *

Molly got back home just in time to transfer her purchases to an overnight bag before the car came for her. She was informed via text from Anthea that she should come down and she looked around her flat one last time, taking a deep breath. She squared her shoulders and headed down the stairs.

Anthea's lips pursed as she took in the slight woman climbing into the back of the vehicle. She couldn't see the interest that (apparently) both Holmes men had taken in the shy girl.

_Oh well, it's not my job to understand them._

Molly spent the ride silently gazing out the window. She'd learned from earlier in the day that she would get nothing more than monosyllabic answers from the woman across from her who seemed glued to her phone. She wondered vaguely if Anthea was her real name but decided that it didn't really matter. She'd call herself something different too, if she worked for the most powerful man in the country.

They pulled up outside a building and Molly looked up.

There was a café next door, which Molly was grateful for; she could cook but didn't always want to put forth the effort when she was the only beneficiary. The door was black with a worn gold, _(or is that brass?) _knocker that was slightly off center. She sat staring for a moment before Anthea cleared her throat.

"Oh right, I just, I just go on in?"

For some reason, the smug smile Anthea gave her as she handed her the key didn't sit well.

"Yes Miss Hooper, go right in. Your things are waiting for you in your bedroom."

"Ok, um, thanks." Molly said in a small voice and after receiving no reply, she climbed out of the car with her bag in hand.

The car drove away and Molly was left looking after it a bit forlorn. She took a deep breath and walked over to the door, taking a moment to look up. She thought for a second that the curtain in the upstairs window twitched but dismissed it as a figment of her imagination.

She put her key in the lock and started to twist when suddenly, the door was wrenched from her grasp. She bit back a scream as a head poked out from the, now wide open, door.

"Molly Hooper."

It wasn't a question, but a statement that came from the man looking out at her. His bright, ice blue eyes swept over her and she got the same uncomfortable sensation she had experienced the previous day when speaking with Mycroft Holmes.

There was a slight resemblance but this man was quite a bit younger, mid to late twenties, she'd guess, and oh so very handsome. He had tousled dark curls above those gorgeous cat-like eyes and the most amazing bone structure she had ever seen in a person's face. His cheekbones were impossibly high and his nose prominent. The look on his face though screamed annoyance. Molly stared at him, stunned. Nevermind that he was the most gorgeous man she'd ever seen, what was he doing in her flat?

_And how does he know my name?_

"Don't ask such stupid questions."

"I didn't say anything."

"You're thinking loud enough they can hear you down the street."

Her brow furrowed as he rolled his eyes at her and moved back to let her enter. When she didn't move, he reached out and grabbed her upper arm, dragging her into the flat and closing the door behind her.


	3. Nice to Meet You

"Get your hands off of me!"

"Gladly, Miss Hooper!"

An irate Molly Hooper stood with her hands on her hips, facing a disgruntled man in his dressing gown.

They were both breathing a bit heavily after Molly having fought against the unknown man and his subsequent throwing her over his shoulder and stalking up the stairs with her screaming and kicking the whole way. When he got into the upstairs flat, which Molly knew to be hers, he dropped her onto the floor like a sack of potatoes. She'd jumped to her feet, ready to defend herself and screamed at him to not touch her. As soon as the words left her mouth though, she stopped.

Her mouth dropped open.

The flat was obviously occupied. And judging by the furnishings, it was occupied by a male.

Him.

Her heart dropped. Surely she was not expected to share a flat with a man she didn't even know. Which brought up the question, who on Earth was this man who treated her with such little respect?

"Sherlock Holmes, at your service." No attempt to hide the sarcasm from the man in front of her.

"What are you doing in my flat?" she asked, haughtily. Molly Anne Hooper would not be talked down to, even if she was screaming internally to just get the hell out of there and out of the presence of this man who simultaneously infuriated and aroused her.

"I believe the better question would be, what are YOU doing in MY flat? But since I already know the answer, there is no need for either question, is there?"

Molly's mouth opened and closing a few times before he rolled his eyes and brought his hands up to rub his temples. With his eyes closed in what appeared to be frustration, he groaned.

"Please tell me Mycroft actually found me someone of intelligence instead of one of the common idiots that roam the streets."

Molly bristled. "Mr. Holmes. I believe there has been a mistake, now if you will excuse me, I will be leaving to speak to your brother and get the situation resolved because you are obviously going to be no help in this matter." She glared daggers at him and turned to go back down the stairs.

"Unfortunately, there has been no mistake. You have been hired as my assistant and you will be residing here. Your new furniture has been delivered and assembled and your belongings are in your room. While you remain here, you will keep to your room or the sitting area," he gestured around them at the messy room, "You will not tamper with the experiments, or remove anything from the kitchen, including the refrigerator, without my consent. You will be neat and concise when reporting to me on the aspects of the crime scenes you will be investigating and the bodies you will examine. You will not bother me while I am working, actually, not at all unless you have a spectacular reason for it. You will be quiet and clean and you will, under no circumstances, enter my room or bathroom. Are we clear?"

Molly stood dumbfounded as he poured out this tirade, the only coherent thought in her head being, _what the hell have I gotten myself into?_ Deciding she would figure all this out later, and that she didn't want to grace him with an answer after his complete lack of consideration for her, she nodded curtly and pivoted on her heel, finding her way to the stairs that led to her room.

"What, nothing? No anger, no frustration? Nothing?" Sherlock called after her as she began to exit the room.

She glanced over her shoulder. "You are baiting me, Mr. Holmes. I will not be drawn into a petty argument with you. As you said, I have been hired to be your assistant, nothing more. Good day."

With that, she headed up the stairway, leaving behind a very frustrated and confused detective.

* * *

Sherlock paced in his room, hearing the sounds of Molly unpacking coming from above him. He ran a hand through his curls in exasperation. _What the hell was Mycroft thinking? I'll break this girl in a heartbeat! She's a tiny, weak, little girl and this is no place for her. Even if she is brilliant._

Sherlock knew that Molly was, indeed, brilliant. Obviously not on the level of himself or Mycroft, but still quite intelligent. When he had first been told of the plan to find him an assistant, he had insisted on looking over the applications himself. Molly caught his eye, as well as that of his brother. She was quiet, smart, patient, and, best of all, had no family in case anything went wrong.

That last thought hadn't really bothered Sherlock until he had scooped the petite student up in his arms and was carrying her up the stairs. Then, it hit him that he really didn't want anything to go wrong with Molly in the flat. His diatribe had been mostly to see if he could run her off immediately.

Half of him hoped it would; the other half was desperate for her to stay.

He ran his hands through his hair again, messing it up even more, as his frustration and anxiety grew to fever pitch. He was getting extremely agitated, something he wanted to avoid at all costs, now that he was not the only occupant of the flat.

He sat down on his bed, taking deep breaths to calm himself. Without realizing it, he began to reason with himself.

_Calm down, you don't want her to see you like this. Not ever but especially not now. Just relax. You can't scare her like this. Don't do it. Just calm down._

* * *

Molly flopped on her bed after almost three hours of unpacking. Her old clothes were neatly hung in the closet alongside the new ones purchased for her by Anthea. She had run her fingers over the expensive materials, wondering at the cost of them all. They were certainly nicer than anything she had ever owned before.

Her new bed was a gorgeous canopy bed, draped with white gauze-type material. Her mouth had dropped open when she saw it. The new bedding was simple, with a deep purple comforter and white sheets but as she lay on it, she realized that it was high quality. Everything was so soft and silky against the bare skin of her arms.

The room held a matching dresser, into which she placed her underwear, starting a bit when she opened the first drawer and it was already piled with matching bra and knicker sets. _Anthea._ She moved down a couple drawers and found an empty one to put her old underthings into.

Looking around the large room, Molly had decided that there was enough space to put a desk and chair in the corner. She still had the check given to her by Mycroft Holmes, so she resolved to purchase one the following day, justifying it by the amount of homework she always had for her medical classes. She desperately needed some bookshelves too but she decided to wait for those.

Her stomach growled and she sighed against the covers. _Damn, now I've got to go downstairs and face that awful, gorgeous man. Ugh._ She hauled herself up and proceeded down the stairs and to the kitchen. There was no sign of her employer, which she was glad of. She opened the fridge and stuck her head in, yelping and banging it on the top of the open fridge when she saw what appeared to be a jar full of eyeballs. The sound of movement behind her made her whirl around. Sherlock leaned against the doorframe casually, with his arms crossed and a smirk on his face.

"Don't tell me the aspiring pathologist is afraid of a few body parts?" he said, smugly.

She glared at him with her hands on her hips. "Why are there body parts where there should be food?"

The smug look didn't leave his face as he answered simply, "Because I want them there."

She sighed, throwing her hands up in the air. "I'll go out."

His brow furrowed and he glanced quickly at the window, and back to her. "It's dark."

"I know," she said, walking past him to the door, grabbing her purse on the way. "I'm a big girl."

He followed her to the door, obviously agitated, but Molly didn't care why. She was hungry and she was going to get something to eat dammit.


	4. The Chippy

Molly chewed her lip, staring up at the menu written in chalk above the deli counter.

Her stomach growled and she self-consciously glanced around, hoping it wasn't so loud that other people could hear it. In the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of an umbrella and sighed.

"I'll be with you in a moment, Mr. Holmes."

"I believe what I have to say supersedes your dinner, Miss Hooper."

She whirled around, hands on her hips.

"I don't care if you are the British government, I'm hungry and since your **_charming_** brother only has body parts in the fridge, I'm getting my dinner here. Now. You can talk to me while I eat."

_I might have crossed the line there,_ Molly thought as Mycroft's lips tightened. But instead of yelling at, or worse, firing her, he merely nodded and, to her surprise, took a place behind her in the line.

"I'll add a bit more to your compensation to cover groceries. Buy more than you think you'll need. Sherlock will eat it if it's there."

"Oh, um, ok." She nervously tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

They stood silently until it was their turn to order and Mycroft surprised her yet again by paying for her meal.

He followed her to a table and sat, picking at some chips while she ate her sandwich and chips with gusto. She'd been too nervous to eat earlier in the day so by now, she felt she could eat a horse.

"As you now know, Miss Hooper, you will be residing in the spare bedroom of my brother's flat. You will insure that he does not leave at any time, for any reason."

She quirked up a brow at this.

"And exactly how am I supposed to do that? He's quite a bit larger than I am."

"Simple. You will inform me if he ever leaves. I will take care of it."

Molly sighed. "Mr. Holmes, I was under the impression that I was to be his assistant, not his babysitter. What is my real purpose here?"

He looked at her for a long moment and she got that uncomfortable twinge she felt in her previous conversations with the man. That horrible feeling that he could see right through her. She shook it off with a nervous smile.

"Miss Hooper, your purpose is to be whatever my brother needs. An eye at crime scenes, a pathologist for the victims, an ear when he needs it, a presence when he doesn't. In short, Miss Hooper, you are his world now. Do not take your duties lightly."

He stood and nodded at her, turning and gliding quickly and silently out of the shop and to the waiting car outside, leaving Molly gaping awkwardly at his retreating back and his half-finished chips on the table.

Still staring out of the door where she last saw him, she groped around clumsily, her fingers settling on one of his abandoned chips and she absently brought it up to her mouth, chewing slowly. Her hunger was all but forgotten as she ate, more out of habit than need. She repeated over Mycroft's words over and over in her head.

_You're his world now, _ran through her mind on an endless loop. _Well what the hell does that mean? Surely I'm not his sole contact with the outside world? Right?_

Molly got a sick feeling in her stomach as she thought over everything she knew so far.

Mycroft wanted to be told if Sherlock left. When she had arrived, Sherlock had literally dragged her inside and shut the door hurriedly. The tabloids all said that no one had seen the famous detective since he abruptly quit taking cases all that time ago. He was obviously trying to run her off with that little display of arrogance earlier.

_Hmmmm…_

Her thoughts were shattered suddenly by the sound of a cough from somewhere in front of her. Molly's eyes cleared and she focused on the shy grin of a man sitting a table away from her. She cheeks flushed as she realized that the whole time she was mindlessly eating, she was staring straight through him. He grinned at her.

"Am I that good looking?" he teased gently.

"Oh no, I mean, yes, I mean, oh god." Molly cradled her head in her hands, highly embarrassed.

The man chuckled. "It's ok, I know you weren't actually looking at me. That's gotta be some problem you've got to make you think so hard about it."

She glanced up to see he was still smiling at her and she nodded.

"Yeah this one is a doozy," she groaned, sounding like a petulant child.

"Wanna talk about it?" he replied, moving to grab his food, showing his intent to move to her table if she answered in the affirmative.

Molly took a moment to examine the young man. He looked nice enough; sweet grin, dark eyes and hair and a wiry frame. He was a bit taller than her, but not too much and he wore a grey tee shirt with jeans that rode a little too low, showing a glimpse of his brightly colored pants. His Irish lilt was calming somehow and Molly found herself nodding and watching as he gathered up his food and drink and moved to the seat that Mycroft had vacated moments before.

"Hi, I'm Jim," he said, reaching a hand out to shake hers.

She grasped his hand, (slightly sweaty,) and replied, "I'm Molly, nice to meet you, Jim."

He smiled that half grin again and folded his hands together, elbows on the table, and rested his chin on them.

"So what's this doozy of a problem you've got, Mols?"

_Mols? That's a new one._

She giggled, nervously, and twirled a bit of hair from her long ponytail around her finger.

"Ok see here's the deal." Molly took a deep breath, something in the back of head mind screaming at her to keep her story vague. She obeyed. "I got hired to be a personal assistant to someone. Take notes, that sort of thing. It pays handsomely, but I've found that I have a lot more duties than I was told at first and my boss is, well, my boss is an arse, to put it bluntly. He's a spoiled prat and I don't know why he's so awful."

Molly sat silently as Jim contemplated her for a moment. His dark gaze was… odd. Like there was something lurking behind the simple man in front of her but he blinked and it was gone.

_Imagining things now are we, Molly?_

Suddenly, he grinned, ruefully. "Ah, some people, they'll just take advantage of anyone, won't they?" he shook his head sadly. "Too bad he got you that way. Can't you just quit?"

Molly shook her head. "No, I've got to pay too many bills. This job provides my flat, all utilities, my school and food. Plus spending money. I can't possibly afford all of that otherwise."

He whistled through his teeth. "Shite, that's some paycheck you've got there. No wonder you're so upset about it. Did you say school?" At her nod, he continued. "What are you going to school for?"

"I'm in medical school right now. I want to become a pathologist. Eventually. But I have to pay for all my school myself. My employer has arranged private classes for me so I'm available the hours he needs me to work."

Another whistle. "Wow, seems like he's got some influence."

Molly raised a brow and dodged the question. "I don't know, I've heard of some other students doing it."

_Liar._

"Pathology, huh? Sounds cool. I just work in IT. Computers all day long, every day. It's nice to talk to another human." He gave her a pointed look and she smiled slightly.

"Yes, well, this human has got to get back to her flat. I've got an early day tomorrow."

He smiled. "Of course. It was nice to meet you, Mols."

She stood to go and gathered up her trash to throw away.

"Oh, I'll get that, don't worry about it." He flashed her a crooked grin. "Least I could do to thank you for keeping me company."

She blushed, not knowing how to reply to that. "Ummm, thanks?"

He laughed as she turned to go out the door. Before she reached it though, he called out to her.

"Oh and Mols?" She looked back over her shoulder at him as he stood and sauntered over to where she waited by the door.

"Sherlock Holmes is a dangerous man. You should stay away from him. You're much too fragile to keep that kind of company."

He reached out and ran one finger down her jawline and she shuddered, his friendly gaze gone as his dark eyes bore into her. He leaned to whisper in her ear.

"Sherlock will get you killed if you don't watch out." He turned to head out of the door, calling over his shoulder, "Do be careful, Molly."

Belatedly, Molly realized she hadn't ever told him who her employer was.


	5. Confrontation

Molly stumbled into Baker Street a few minutes later, with no other desire than to take a nice hot bath and get some sleep. It had been a long day and she was feeling the stress of everything settle into her neck and shoulders. She cracked her neck as she walked in the door and jumped when a deep voice called out from the kitchen.

"That's incredibly annoying, do stop."

She sighed, toeing off her shoes as she held onto the door frame, and dropping her bag to the floor.

_Hello to you too._

Sherlock appeared in the entryway to the kitchen and leaned his tall frame against the wall. His eyes swept over her disinterestedly for a moment, before his brow creased.

"Who were you eating with?"

Molly froze in the midst of removing her coat. She glanced at him, a question in her eyes and he rolled his in response.

"Obvious. You ate with a man. Not my brother, though he was there, someone else. Who?"

She finished taking off her coat and hung it on the peg next to his. She briefly wondered why he needed one, since he never left the flat, but the thought left her mind rather quickly.

"I met a friend of yours."

It was Sherlock's turn to look puzzled. "A friend? Impossible. John and Mary are away on holiday."

_He only has two friends?_

"I was being sarcastic, Mr. Holmes."

"I'm not Mr. Holmes!" he snapped, surprising her with his vehemence. "Mycroft is Mr. Holmes. I'm just Sherlock. Remember that, would you? Now, who is this friend of mine?"

"I don't know. He said his name was Jim." She looked down at her hands, where she had unconsciously been picking her nail polish again.

_Gotta repaint them before class._

Sherlock watched the tiny woman before him pick away at her nails, obviously nervous. He deduced quickly that something had unnerved her about the man she had dinner with.

He hated that phrase.

_If she didn't like him why did she eat with him? Ex? No, no prior acquaintance. He must have said something that bothered her then. Maybe a sexual overture?_

He didn't like that idea at all, though he had no clue why it bothered him.

"What did he say to you?"

Molly's head shot up and she bit down on her lip. Sherlock had to pry his eyes away from her little mouth when she sank her teeth into the flesh there.

"Um, well, he told me to stay away from you. That you were trouble."

A stab of rage cut through Sherlock. Partly that someone would dare say that to Molly; partly that Molly told someone she worked for him.

"You idiot! Why would you tell someone you work for me?! Are you that stupid?!" he yelled at her, eyes wide with anger, his face contorted with his rage. He crossed the room, grabbing her upper arms tightly and shaking her slightly.

Molly cringed, his outburst and grip taking her by surprise.

"I didn't, I didn't! I didn't tell him! He knew already! I never said your name!" she gasped out, wincing in his tight grasp.

Sherlock stopped cold. He slowly released her, staring down into her face, her eyes wide. Her fear made him calm almost instantly.

_No, don't be afraid of me. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it._

He was expressionless as he studied her.

"He knew that you worked for me without you telling him?" he questioned.

She nodded, fearfully.

"And you said his name was Jim?"

She nodded again, mute for the moment.

_Jim, Jim, Jim… We don't know a Jim, do we? Of course, he could be lying but what reason would he have for that? No, his name is Jim. But who is he?_

He realized he was still standing very close to her and stepped back, folding his hands behind his back. He stared at her another second before turning on his heel and marching to his room, slamming the door behind him.

* * *

Molly watched Sherlock go and heard the door shut before she dared to move. She gently rubbed her upper arms, thinking ruefully that she'd probably have bruises in the morning. She desperately needed a bath, but wasn't sure if she had the energy for it after such an eventful day.

She continued to stare in the direction Sherlock had gone for a moment, then slowly turned and climbed the staircase to her room, flopping on the bed, fully clothed, and was asleep almost instantly.

* * *

Sherlock was vibrating with anger.

Who DARED to frighten his Molly?

_Wait, my Molly? Oh no, don't start getting ideas._

He heard her flop on her bed, the indignant squeak of the frame clearly audible through the ceiling of his room.

When there were no other sounds, Sherlock realized she had fallen asleep instantly.

_She'll be cold. We could turn the heat up, but then we would be uncomfortable. We could go cover her up with a blanket._

Part of his mind screamed at him that it was an invasion of her privacy and he shouldn't enter her room, especially since he had forbidden her to go into his, but the other part argued that he didn't want her to get sick. That she wouldn't be able to perform her duties if she got sick.

_Right then._

Sherlock left his room, stopping in the bath to reach into the linen closet and pull out a thick blanket. He crept silently up the stairs to her room and pushed the door open. She'd been too distracted to even close it all the way. He shook his head.

_Careless. She should've closed and locked it._

Sherlock tiptoed into the room and stood next to the bed, gazing down at the sleeping form of Molly Hooper. She lay sprawled out on the bed diagonally, her feet hanging of the side. She was on her stomach, with her face turned to the side, her hair falling across her cheek. Sherlock almost forgot why he was there, lost in staring down at the petite girl.

_Enough of that. Put the blanket on her and leave._

He shook his head, startling himself out of the reverie and covered her, practically running out of the room when he finished.

* * *

The second he hit the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock's teeth bared.

"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" he snarled as he walked into the sitting room, stalking over to stand over his brother in a menacing manner.

Mycroft merely raised a brow at his brother's behavior and exhaled a sigh.

"Such violence in your demeanor, brother mine. Mummy would be ashamed." He put down the cup of tea that seemed to have appeared by magic. Sherlock certainly couldn't remember making it so it must have been Mycroft himself.

"You didn't answer my question. What are you doing here?"

Sherlock flopped into his chair, pulling his legs up and affecting his most sulky air. He hated dealing with Mycroft, even more so now that he controlled basically every part of Sherlock's life.

"No doubt you know Miss Hooper had dinner with a man." Mycroft regarded Sherlock with his brow raised, as if waiting for Sherlock to have a negative reaction to his statement.

"Yes, of course. Something about him warning her against me." Sherlock rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. "I already know this, Mycroft, what's your point?"

Mycroft leaned in towards Sherlock, abandoning his tea onto the side table. "You can't afford to lose her. She's invaluable to you if you want to continue your little consulting detective game."

"I could protect her better if you would let me leave this damned flat!" Sherlock burst out, leaping to his feet, knocking his chair backwards to the floor where it made a loud thump. He cringed, his eyes darting to the ceiling, waiting for a noise that would indicate he had woken the girl above.

He glanced back at Mycroft, who was beyond smug. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his brother.

"I don't want her to come down here. She annoys me," he defended himself. He definitely didn't want Mycroft thinking he harbored some feeling for Molly, Sherlock knew that his brother would find a way to use that against him.

"We both know why you aren't allowed out of this place, Sherlock. And if you were, you would have no need of Miss Hooper. But you have to tell her what she needs to fear. Keeping her in the dark could get her killed, brother. You know that." Mycroft folded his hands over his lap, the picture of serenity.

"Then why didn't you tell her when you hired her?!" Sherlock spat back at the man across from him. He was losing his temper and fought hard to keep his calm. His hands fisted at his sides as he glared down at Mycroft.

"You know perfectly well why I didn't tell her. She would never have come." Mycroft's eyes did not miss the tension in his brother's body and he stood, heading for the door.

"There was a body discovered a little over an hour ago, so Lestrade should be by with a case for you in the morning. Molly's classes will begin again on Monday morning. I'll send Anthea by with the details."

With that, he was gone, leaving Sherlock breathing deeply in the living room, trying so hard to keep his rage in check.


	6. On the Job

**Thanks for the overwhelming support! I just hope I don't let you guys down! **

* * *

Molly awoke abruptly to the sound of banging on her bedroom door and Sherlock's impatient voice.

"Wake up Hooper! We've got a case!" The banging continued and Molly groaned, putting a pillow over her head to drown out the pounding. The door burst open after a minute and light flooded in when the shutters were wrenched open.

"Go away!" she moaned out, her body protesting movement. She made a mental note not to ever pass out in her clothes again, especially in that uncomfortable position, and sat up. She glanced down at the blanket that covered her and frowned.

_How did this get here?_

Molly watched as Sherlock began to pace back and forth, his long stride making short work of the length of it.

_One, two, three, turn. One, two, three, turn. One, two-_

Sherlock's voice interrupted her thoughts.

"- at the scene right now, you'll need to get there right away. Lestrade is downstairs waiting to take you." He rattled off the details and her sleep fogged mind tried to keep up.

"Wait, I've got to go examine a crime scene? Right now?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course not. I have video of the scene from last night. You'll be accompanying Lestrade to Bart's to perform an autopsy. I'll be watching via webcam." He glanced around as if throwing clothes at her would hurry her up.

Molly glared at him. "Don't they have qualified pathologists at Bart's? It's a prestigious hospital. Why would they just let me barge in? I haven't even graduated."

He sighed. "The pathologists," he said that word with distain, "at Bart's are all idiots, you're more intelligent than all of them put together." She blushed at the compliment but he didn't seem to notice. "Besides, none of them would work with me when I was still out there," he waved vaguely in the direction of the window, "and they most certainly wouldn't be able to handle what I'm working on now. They're all so dense."

Molly exhaled slowly. "And what makes you think I'll be able to handle it?"

He examined her a minute, his eyes flitting across her petite frame and returning to her face. "I'm never wrong."

With that statement, he turned and made for the door, barking out orders for her to dress and for God's sakes, comb her hair, and get downstairs immediately.

* * *

After the storm that was her employer exited the room, Molly stood slowly, stretching out like a cat. She opened her closet, frowning at the rows of new clothes, courtesy of Anthea. She had no idea how to dress. On the one hand, she would be performing an autopsy. On the other, she had to look like she belonged there. She settled on a plain black pair of trousers and a pale blue button up. After sliding on her black flats, she examined herself in the mirror.

_Presentable._

She ran her brush through her hair, tying it back into a high ponytail and nodded with satisfaction. She rarely bothered with much makeup. Today, she decided to forego it altogether.

* * *

Sherlock paced the sitting room in front of a silver haired, world weary, man. Lestrade lounged in one of the two chairs in front of the fireplace, sipping a cup of tea. His face was creased with confusion.

"Sherlock, why can't you just use the pathologist Mycroft dug up? He's been good. Why the sudden need to find someone else?"

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose between his long fingers. "Because, Lestrade," his tone was one of a parent trying to explain something to a child. "The crimes we deal with aren't for the masses to know and I'm tired of having to communicate with someone my brother controls. It makes for too much… annoyance." He shuddered.

"Doesn't your brother pay this girl though? Isn't that the same thing? He controls her too." Lestrade argued, ignoring the man-child's tone.

The detective shook his head. "No. He might sign her check but this one isn't that easily bought. She's an idealist. Money isn't going to sway her from what her conscious-" he spat out the last word like it was a bitter food, "-says is right."

"Well that sounds like a hell of a match for you, mate. You don't have a conscious at all." Lestrade grinned as Sherlock shot him a dirty look. "Oh come on, I'm joking. We both know that isn't true. Granted, not many other people know it." He shrugged. "But we do."

"Where is she?!" Sherlock turned to go back up the stairs but Molly entered the room before he could get more than a couple steps. He frowned when he heard the Detective Inspector's sputter that indicated he had seen Molly.

_Aren't you still married, inspector? Even if she is cheating on you again with that p.e. teacher._

Molly stood awkwardly in the doorway and Sherlock made an annoyed noise before walking to her and grabbing her upper arm, steering her into the room and over to Lestrade.

"Miss Hooper, Detective Inspector Lestrade. He'll be escorting you to Bart's and back today and to any crime scenes in the future as well as providing clearance for whatever you might need. Gavin, this is Miss Molly Hooper, my assistant, though you already know that."

Sherlock ignored the itch in the back of his mind to beat the look of interest off of Greg's face as he hurriedly corrected Sherlock (who had called him the wrong name on purpose) and shook Molly's hand.

He stood silently for a moment, observing Molly's body language, satisfied that he found no major attraction there. He told himself that he was only worried about it because it was in his best interests to keep them apart so that their working relationship would not suffer.

The older man in front of her smiled warmly and Molly liked him instantly. He was tall, though not as tal as her employer, and had a boyish charm when he grinned, despite the salt and pepper hair he sported. He was tanned and had chocolate brown eyes. Normally, that was the type of man she could fall for but as she gazed at him, besides the observation that he was handsome, Molly felt no real attraction. She glanced over at Sherlock, whose brow was furrowed, but she wasn't sure why.

"Yes, yes, Lestrade, you can flirt on your own time. Now will you please get on with business and get Miss Hooper to the morgue so we can finish this case?!" Sherlock was obviously frustrated and the DI took a step back. He looked to Molly when she didn't move, then back to Sherlock, understanding, then anger settling in his gaze.

"What the bloody hell, Sherlock?! She doesn't know, does she? Shite, and she's LIVING here!" He reached over and pulled Molly back a step from Sherlock, putting himself slightly in front of her.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his gaze could only be described as cold. So much so, that Molly shivered involuntarily.

"Miss Hooper will be informed when it is necessary and it is not your job to tell her anything. Simply escort her there and back. Now go." He turned his back and stalked out of the room, slamming the door to his bedroom shut when he got there.

Molly gave a perplexed glance to Lestrade, whose brow furrowed in thought, before he shrugged and headed down the stairs, muttering under his breath. Molly followed, wondering again what the hell she had gotten herself into.

* * *

Sherlock listened to the downstairs door close and flopped on his bed, eyeing his closet. He kept some in there for emergencies, though he hadn't used in a long time. He couldn't afford the loss of control anymore. He shook his head and rolled over, setting his alarm for one hour; the amount of time he estimated it would take to get Molly to Bart's and mostly set up for her first autopsy under his employ.


	7. Proving Worth

**Sorry this chapter is so short. I'm focusing most of my efforts right now on How to Play a Game Called Murder so I can finish it up before seriously jumping on this one and Frigid Negotiations (the frozen!omegaverse!au.)**

* * *

Molly sighed as she scrubbed her hands and arms to the elbows. Sherlock's behavior was bothering her. She was so confused by the brilliant, enigmatic man who shared her flat. Or rather, she shared his.

She had subtly tried to pry information out of the handsome DI who escorted her to the morgue, but he wouldn't crack.

"Sherlock Holmes is a great man. Maybe someday he'll be a good one as well," was all she got out of the tight-lipped older man.

_Whatever the hell that means._

Her thoughts drifted back to the man who had woken her that morning. She knew he was hiding something from her. Something huge, but Molly had no idea what that could be.

_Curiosity killed the cat,_ she warned herself before suddenly smiling. _But satisfaction brought him back._ Molly was determined that her curiosity towards her new employer would be satisfied one way or another. She pushed him to the back of her thoughts and focused on her surroundings.

She examined the room around her. It was stark and clinical, as expected of a room of that type. All the white hurt Molly's eyes but she guessed she had better get used to it if she wanted to be working in that environment for the foreseeable future. The metal of the tables was polished and cold and Molly ran a finger over the surface of one, relishing the coolness against her overheated skin. The lab coat was heavy and hot, and it was making her cheeks flush a shade of rosy red. She glanced over at the Detective Inspector, who was standing next to a scruffy man, watching him set up a small camera.

"Oi, Billy, how'd he rope you into doing this?" the silver-haired man questioned.

"Ah, you know. The boss needs all kinds of things done for him. This ain't the strangest by a long shot," replied the other, who Molly secretly thought looked like a bum. She pursed her lips, studying them, until he huffed in satisfaction and they both stepped away; one out the door with a mock salute, and the other, Lestrade, to stand next to Molly.

"Alright, Wiggins has got the camera all set up. Whenever you're ready, wheel out the body. I'll call Sherlock to make sure he's watching." He pulled out his phone, punching a speed dial number and holding it up to his ear.

"Yeah, Sherlock, oh hey John! I thought you were still traveling. Oh, ok, yeah is he there? Ok tell him we're ready." He hung up his phone and nodded to Molly. "Alright, he's watching. Just do an exam like you normally would and note everything out loud. I'll take pictures as we go and send them to him."

Molly took a deep breath and let it out.

_No reason to be nervous. You're brilliant at this. Just pretend you're back in class._

She lifted her head up, her chin at a defiant angle, and smiled to herself.

_Here's something you're more capable at than Sherlock Bloody Holmes._

With those words of encouragement, she practically skipped over to the drawer and removed the body.

Her eyes flitted over the man as she wheeled him to her station and her words poured out without conscious thought.

"Tall, broad build, multiple lacerations all along the torso centering on the neck area." She pulled the flesh apart with a gloved hand. "A serrated knife? No, more like claws. I don't know what kind of animal is large enough to tear a man apart like this though." She picked up her saw and got to work, disassembling the body, learning its secrets, all the while talking aloud to the camera and the silent Detective Inspector, who circled the body snapping photos with his phone at every interval.

* * *

Sherlock sat in front of his computer, hands steepled in front of his face, with his fingers occasionally rubbing across his full bottom lip. He narrowed his eyes, glancing back and forth between the screen and his phone, where pictures were popping up, one after another.

He had to admit, Molly Hooper was quite thorough in her examination of the victim. Of course, he already knew what the cause of death was, he was just letting her practice and maybe come to the right conclusion herself, though he doubted that so early on in the game. He was really hoping that she thought to get a dna sample from the cuts in the man's flesh. That would make his job quite a bit easier.

He grinned triumphantly when Molly suddenly stopped in the middle of weighing the liver to grab up a pair of tweezers and pluck a long, black hair from one of the cuts and put it in an evidence bag, which Lestrade took from her.

_Good show, Molly._

He watched attentively as his assistant methodically performed her duties, not slipping up at all. He had to admit, she was very good at it. She would make a great pathologist one day.

_If he let her go._

He shook that thought from his mind, knowing it wasn't good. He tried hard to shut down that part of his brain, to keep it locked away in a trunk, deep in an unused closet of his mind palace. He was disturbed by the fact that since he first saw his new assistant, standing on the doorstep outside his flat, that portion of his brain had been more active than it had in years. Being alone was what protected him and he wasn't about to give that up. Not when the last time he did had such dire consequences. Ones that still haunted him into the present day.

Sherlock opened his eyes just as Molly finished with the body and had begun to scrub out. He watched the way she moved, confident in her actions. After a moment, he shook himself and closed his computer. He was playing a dangerous game and for the first time, Sherlock wasn't sure what exactly winning meant.


	8. Drawing Conclusions

**Thanks so much for the reviews and follows! You all are fantastic!**

* * *

Molly sighed as she climbed the steps up to the flat she shared with the world's only consulting detective. She was glad there was only one; he was enough trouble on his own.

Detective Inspector Lestrade preceded her up the staircase and into the sitting room. He'd asked her to call him Greg repeatedly and she was trying but it was still easier to think of him as Detective Inspector. She supposed that she'd get used to it though, as it appeared they'd be seeing quite a bit of each other. Lestrade, (Greg, she reminded herself,) had mentioned something about being the only person who worked with Sherlock, though Molly wasn't sure whether that was because Sherlock was a huge prat and no one else would deal with him or because the detective insisted on Lestrade. She had a feeling it was a mixture of both.

"Ahh Molly," Sherlock greeted her from his position sprawled out on the couch in his dressing gown. One of his arms was tensed, making a fist several times and her eyes narrowed as his sleeve fell slightly, revealing not one, but three nicotine patches. Caught up in her observation, she failed to notice the look Sherlock gave Lestrade when the officer reached to help her take off her coat. She shrugged out of it and smiled gratefully, as the silver-haired man hung it on a peg by the door.

"So what's on your agenda for the rest of the day," Lestrade asked, smiling down at her.

"Umm, I think I'll buy myself a desk to go in my room. Lots of studying to do, you know." She twirled a piece of hair around her finger thoughtfully. "I need some shelves for all my books too but I think I'll have to get them at a later time."

"I could help you if-"

"I'll have no more use for you today, Lestrade. When that DNA test comes back you'll have the name of your killer. Don't let the door hit you on the way out," Sherlock called out with his eyes closed.

Greg sighed, rolling his eyes dramatically before winking at Molly, and headed back down the stairs.

* * *

As soon as Sherlock heard the door slam behind Lestrade, he leapt up, causing Molly to jump and let out a little yelp at the suddenness of it. He narrowed his eyes at her, circling her still form in the manner of a predator, analyzing her.

"Well that was rude," the girl said, nervously. He moved closer to her, still walking around her, every angle of her, subject to his scrutiny.

The detective didn't miss the flush that crept into his assistant's cheeks at his proximity. He allowed himself a smirk behind her back before moving back to face her.

"What are your conclusions, Miss Hooper?" he asked suddenly, causing her to jump again. She was easily startled, a trait which Sherlock had already begun to use to his advantage. He liked to throw her off kilter. He wondered just how far he could through her off if he said the words that had been in his mind since the moment he'd set eyes on her.

After a moment of silence, he realized she was studying his face and the slight upturn of her lips advertised that she was quite aware of his wandering thoughts. He only hoped that she didn't know the direction they had gone.

"Miss Hooper!" he barked. "Your conclusions!"

He could tell what her answer would be before it left her lips by the defiant set of her shoulders and the look of irony on her face.

"Werewolves did it, sir," she smirked, thinking herself clever with her answer, wanting to antagonize him. Well two could play at that game, Sherlock thought.

"Very good. I didn't think you'd catch on so quickly." he bit back a laugh at how her eyes widened in alarm, then narrowed again, annoyed at him for throwing her sarcasm back in her face. She'd learn sooner or later. Sherlock Holmes would fight God for the last word, a mere slip of a girl was no challenge.

She sighed heavily and walked back to the door, retrieving her bag and taking out a manila envelope with a few pages inside.

"Here. All my findings are there. I printed it up before we left Bart's."

Sherlock hid his impressed expression. She had to be quite fast to have written everything up and gotten back to the flat as quickly as she did.

"It appears to be some sort of animal attack, going by the size and shape of the lacerations, though here," she pointed at a picture in the middle of the second page, "you can see bruises," she pointed them out, the mottled blacks, blues, and purples decorating the skin of the victims neck. "It appears that he was strangled at some point as well, though it wasn't the cause of death. That was blood loss."

She stood silently, waiting for him to finish looking over the papers. He glanced up at her, opening his mouth to speak and was distracted by the fact that she was chewing on her lower lip. He watched her for a second before clearing his throat and trying to remember what it was that he had been about to say.

_Oh, there it is._

"Very good, Miss Hooper. You are quite competent and thorough."

She blushed at his words as he turned away from her, picking up his phone from the coffee table and shooting off a text.

**That makes 3 in the last 12 days.** **- SH**

Molly's brow furrowed in confusion and she voiced her questions.

"You told the Detective Inspector that he would have his killer when he got the DNA test back but that was an animal hair. He's not going to arrest an animal, is he?"

"You may go now. We're finished," he said without looking back at her, choosing to ignore her question.

"But, what is it? What killed him?" Molly asked, her face scrunched in consternation.

He finally looked back up at her and winked. "You already know." He dropped the papers on the table and strode off in the direction of his room, picking up his violin on the way.

* * *

Molly threw her hands up in the air with a frustrated sigh.

_Who the hell understands that man?_

She turned and started up the stairs to her room before remembering that she had wanted to purchase a desk. As her stomach growled, she decided she needed to get some groceries as well. She wavered, trying to decide if she was going to get her chores done or take a nap. With another sigh, Molly turned back and headed to the door to put on her coat.

"I'm going out!" she yelled in the direction Sherlock had gone.

She'd barely made it to the top of the stairs when a strong hand grabbed her wrist, wrapping its fingers around her wrist with ease. A low growl sounded behind her as she reflexively tried to jerk her hand free.

"Where are you going?"

Molly looked behind her and saw Sherlock, his eyes narrowed, standing quite close to her. She blushed and avoided his piercing gaze, wrapping her free arm around her.

"Out."

He smirked and rolled his eyes at her, jerking on her wrist to pull her body flush against his.

"That's not good enough."

Molly gasped, her eyes meeting his chest, the buttons on his shirt straining. Sherlock smelled of cigarettes and expensive aftershave and Molly couldn't help taking in a deep breath through the nose. He used his free hand to tip her head up, his fingers under her chin, and grinned down at her.

She looked up at him, her chocolate eyes meeting his electric blue ones, and her mood turned to anger. Fury that he thought he could make her obey him by exploiting her attraction to him. She pulled back abruptly.

* * *

Sherlock watched Molly's expression change and immediately pulled down the shutters on his emotions, hiding everything behind a mask of cold indifference. She unconsciously squared her shoulders to make herself more intimidating, obviously taking his actions as a ploy to get her to obey him.

Sherlock wasn't sure if she was right or not. His mind was at war with itself, one side screaming for him to stay as far from her as possible, the other wanting her close so he could smell her strawberry and lemon scented shampoo again.

"I don't want to be here any more than you want me here, Mr. Holmes." Molly's voice shook with anger and he frowned.

"What makes you think I don't want you here?" he asked, relishing the look of surprise that crossed the tiny woman's face. He took a step forward, once again invading her personal space and leaned down to whisper in her ear.

"You're exactly where I want you."


	9. Wiggins

**Oh my gosh, I should be stoned for leaving this story so long without an update. In my defense, I was attempting to finish another fic of mine, but still, so sorry about the delay. This is a bit of a background chapter, introducing a new character. Hope you like!**

* * *

Molly sauntered through the posh furniture store, defiantly licking her ice cream cone. The small act of rebellion was just what she needed to put her mind at ease after the incredibly confusing confrontation with her boss an hour before.

Her gaze flickered to the window, where a homeless boy, no more than seventeen or eighteen, stood, watching people pass by. She'd noticed him twice already that day, once at the ice cream shop and now here. Molly shrugged and turned her attention back to the beautifully crafted, solid walnut desk she'd seen as soon as she'd walked in. The price tag made her balk at first, but her sensible side told her that she had more than enough money and if she took care of it, that it would last her years.

Her mind made up, she decided to look at shelves for her books as well. She knew there wasn't enough space in her room for an actual bookshelf now that the desk was going in, but she could get some floating shelves.

Molly's mind wandered as she let her fingers trail over the smooth wood of the different shelves available. Try as she might, she couldn't figure out Sherlock Holmes. One minute he was cold and indifferent, the next, full of pent up passion. She shook her head. He was a puzzle and she didn't have the energy or patience to try to solve it right now.

Not finding a shelf she liked, Molly purchased the desk and a comfortable leather swivel chair to go with it. She was exceedingly proud of her purchase, never having bought something quite so nice for herself.

_It'll be put to good use,_ she thought, remembering the loads of coursework involved in her degree.

The clerk made a note to have the desk delivered later that day and Molly set off back to Baker Street. She stopped on the way and bought some groceries, and was surprised to find her desk had already arrived by the time she made it back to the flat.

There were two men from the furniture store, but oddly, there were also two raggedy looking teens, who were joined as she arrived, by the boy she'd seen earlier. Her brow furrowed as she realized that he must have been following her.

"Umm, excuse me, what is going on?" she asked timidly of one of the men from the furniture store.

"These kids won't let us in to set up your desk, Miss. Do you know them?" he asked, dipping his head in greeting to her before motioning to the dirty teens in front of the door.

Before she could answer in the negative, the boy who'd been following her piped up.

"Holmes' orders, Miss Hooper," he said politely, his accent much too posh to fit with his persona. "No one goes in but us." He gestured to the other two dirty teens.

Molly bit her lip, thinking it over, before nodding and turning back to the man from the shop.

"Terribly sorry, I must have forgotten," she said, flashing a bright smile at the man. He looked confused for a second, but Molly's flirtatious smile kept him from asking any questions. Instead, he nodded and shook her hand, holding on a tad too long, and telling her that if she ever needed anything to go back to the shop and look for him. She smiled graciously, not letting it drop until he'd climbed back into the delivery truck with his companion and pulled away from the curb.

She turned back to the teen.

"Someone has some explaining to do," she started.

"Not it," the teen exclaimed, followed swiftly by his comrades.

Molly smothered a smile at their childish behavior.

"Alright, I'll talk to him then." She started to head through the open door of the building but paused on the step. "I suppose you know where it goes?" she asked, to which the boys nodded.

"Okay then, but don't touch anything else in the room."

There was a bright grin from the boy who'd followed her, who she assumed was the leader.

"Oh Miss, he'd have our heads if we did that."

With that quip, the boys got to work moving the desk and chair into the building from the sidewalk and Molly headed upstairs to confront Sherlock.

* * *

He'd texted Wiggins right after Molly left the flat.

The boy was a valuable associate, willing to do whatever Sherlock needed and able to pass unnoticed with ease. Sherlock trusted him implicitly, which was not something that could be said for most people.

Years earlier, Sherlock had found a dirty little boy standing on a street corner, looking hungry and forlorn. When asked where he belonged, he'd looked up into Sherlock's face and gulped.

"Nowhere sir. I don't belong anywhere."

Sherlock's eyes had narrowed. Despite the grim that covered the child from head to foot, his accent was posh and his manners impeccable. He raked his eyes over the boy's skinny frame and deduced quickly that he'd run away from home, where he was regularly beaten by his drunken father.

"Come along then," Sherlock had commanded, pleased when the boy had followed without mundane questions.

He'd taken him home, given him clothes and food and for the next few weeks, taught him how to hide in plain sight. Sherlock taught him how to imitate the mannerisms of other, down to hiding his upper-class accent when in the presence of others.

When he had gotten good enough, Billy Wiggins had taken to the streets to be Sherlock's eyes and ears in the city. He'd even taken it upon himself to recruit those he found trustworthy to help him. Through Wiggins, Sherlock built up the homeless network to the point where he could find out almost anything going on in the city within a matter of a few hours, a day at most. He found it incredibly useful, especially after his incident.

Now, he relied on Wiggins for almost all of his information and the teen delivered, working tirelessly to help his boss. In turn, Sherlock took care of him, making sure that even though he was on the streets, he never went without a place to sleep or food to eat.

He'd given him the task of watching Molly, knowing that Wiggins would protect her with his life if need be. Sherlock hoped sincerely that it wouldn't come to that.

Sherlock watched as Molly arrived back at the flat, and spoke briefly to the men and boys gathered outside. His fist clenched as she obviously flirted with one of the men, but relaxed as he realized that she was simply keeping the man from asking questions. He grinned.

_Oh, you are a smart one, aren't you, Miss Hooper?_

He looked on as she chatted with the boys, their voices barely carrying up the stairwell to the sitting room. He heard Wiggins attest to the fact that Sherlock wouldn't stand for them to touch anything in Molly's room and grinned to himself, knowing the boy spoke the truth. He gaze drifted up to the ceiling.

He hoped that he hadn't overstepped his boundaries with what he had done while Molly was out.

_I guess we'll see soon enough,_ he thought as Molly's quiet step sounded on the stairs leading up to 221B.


End file.
